Aftermath
by ananana
Summary: In the aftermath of Harry's death, Draco, Ron and Hermione are struggling to go on, but perhaps Harry can give them something yet.


I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with Harry Potter: DUH. I do believe that is a gimme. Now: ONWARD

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They're standing at his grave, fighting the tears and the despair, slowly destroying them, watching the slim, pale figure lay roses on the marble.

It's just the three of them now, struggling to survive the hole that Harry has left behind him. It's hard, always hard to pretend that they're handling this, that they'll be okay. That it isn't tearing them into a million pieces.

The man and the woman stand a little away, waiting in the heavy silence as Draco lets go of those wracking, aching sobs that no one else ever sees. No one else could ever understand.

They are the only ones he will ever let see his weakness.

Slim fingers, pale and delicate, shaking as they trace the words carved into the cold stone; he did it himself, for the only man he will ever love. The only one he ever wanted, the only one he will ever want.

Harry James Potter

1980 – 1997

Friend, Son, Lover.

You were our everything

You kept me whole

We are broken in your absence.

But it's not enough, can never be enough. How can a few words on a carved slab of marble tell the world that the green-eyed man who saved them all, saved him first? That just by loving him, Harry made Draco's world complete?

The blonde head bows in anguish as he remembers.

_When the pearly sky overhead was just barely beginning to show streaks of soft blues and yellows, they'd first stepped onto the pitch. There had been a moment of silence as the two young men had sized one another up, eyes slightly narrowed, bodies alert. It was mere seconds before they almost leapt into the air. This, more than anything else in the world, was their domain: and theirs alone. _

_They played for what seemed like hours, darting and weaving, skilfully avoiding the preset training bludgers, perfecting Wronski Feints (and Harry's personal favourite, the Antani Shie) until they could do each move with their eyes closed. It was when they reached noon, sun blazing brightly overhead, that they finally conceded to the vocal demands of their stomachs, and touched back down. The sight of Harry, flushed and tousled, sweaty and panting slightly, was enough to make Draco drool, but it wasn't until the brunette started walking away, sultry green eyes peeping back over his shoulder at the other that he'd lost all self-control. Entwined on the grass beneath the shade of a peaceful oak tree, they'd been (as they always were), insatiable for each other, hands hot and hard and desperate against sweating skin for the first time, a little slower, more gently the second. _

_Suffice to say, it was some period of time before their stomachs were finally answered._

His body shakes, like a leaf in the wind. They will never again soar through the blue sky like there was nothing on earth to hold them back. Never mock each other again, never laugh together.

Never touch.

It's in the middle of night, when he is alone and cold in their bed, that it hits him hardest. It's when there is no beautiful golden body to cradle him, no soft red lips to press worshipping kisses on his skin. The feeling of emptiness, of being incomplete, never fades.

It's not hearing Harry say: "I love you."

He doesn't move for a very long time.

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Though the day is biting cold and wind furious, they do not fidget or move impatiently as Draco kneels before Harry's tombstone. It's hard for him they know, like having his soul ripped in two every time he comes, and it is harder and harder every time. He misses the brunette: loves him more and more every passing day.

When they speak between themselves, the tall, thin, red-headed man and his small, slim, brunette companion, they quietly agree: Draco will never recover from this. When he finally perishes, he will die still loving Harry.

They will too.

After the blonde moves back, still trembling, the duo take his place before the stone. Hermione kneels and places both hands over the words, fingers splayed wide and eyes shut, leaning in close. This is the place where her best friend lies, and she is still trying to feel him here, sense where he's gone.

Why he's no longer with them.

Ron doesn't operate quite so gracefully. The body that lies in the frozen earth is that of the man who was, and is, his brother. Excluding the much-loved figure at his side, he cared for no-one in the world more, and he collapses, much as Draco did earlier, unable to bear the weight of this persistent, aching grief. Roles reversed, it is he who cries, tears running unchecked down his face while she mourns silently.

Only when her own ritual is satisfied down she sits back a little: for someone who's always known everything, Hermione still doesn't want to believe that maybe she cannot find the lost man somewhere in the ether. But he is gone from her reach, forever, and she needs to remind herself of this over and over again.

The moan is torn from her, from somewhere deep inside that is still bleeding from having her heart brutally removed. Deep, wracking sobs follow, and she struggles to her feet, backing away from the grave in desperation. If she can't see it, then maybe it's not real: maybe Harry will walk around that corner and be back, be home. Every fibre of her being is screaming at her, begging her to bring Harry back, repair this wound. Blindly she spins, searching, searching, searching.

Draco looks up at her sudden movement, but does not stir. Trapped in the world of the dead, he merely stares blankly at his friend and then returns to his grief and his memories.

Yet though the blonde is more concerned with the deceased, Ron has not yet forgotten that there are those still living who need him. Like one approaching a feral animal, he regains his feet and shuffles towards the terrified woman who is alternately sobbing and calling Harry's name out to the open sky. Salt drying on his cheeks, heart breaking, he softly calls out to her. It's not much, but he's never been good with words.

"'Mione."

It's enough. With a wild cry the woman hurls herself into his waiting arms and the freckled limbs pull her tightly to him, rocking them back and forth, and murmuring soothing nonsense. The brown head, once bushy and curly, now tamer and neater, burrows deeper into his embrace, desperate to drive away the demons that haunt her; she mumbles and it's soft, but he still hears.

Didn't know it was possible, but Ron dies a little more.

"I loved him Ron."

Oh, four little words that leave so much unsaid – why, why, _why_? – and make the man feel as though harpy hands have plunged into his chest and cruelly removed his heart. But he doesn't want to burden her, knows she doesn't feel the same way, and opens his mouth to tell her that he did too, because what else can he say?

Somehow though, when he opens his mouth, the words come out wrong. Ron knows it the second they leave his lips, and he curses himself for stupidity.

_Oh thank Merlin that they didn't take you too: I couldn't have survived that. _

Hermione doesn't notice his anger at himself however; pulling back from his chest, she looks at his face and hers softens. Frozen hands frame his face and she presses a sweet kiss to his lips. All this time, unsure and waiting and now they're found. A tear glides now her flushed cheeks and she shudders. It is cold and they should leave now.

Drawing away, she takes his hand gently and leads him over to where Draco stands alone in the snow and reaches out, cold fingers entwining with the pale digits. Together the three adults move away from the four gravestones on the hilltop and apparate together. Neither Ron nor Hermione wants to leave the other, and both know that Draco shouldn't be left alone.

But as they leave, Ron takes a final glance back and sends up a silent prayer. His very best friend, dead at seventeen, joining his parents and his godfather, leaving behind his two best friends and his lover, and somehow, _somehow_, from beyond the grave, still saving his arse.

Harry always did know what to say.

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Hay, hoped you liked: review or whatever. XD

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